by Ed Grace
He turned around to see a young boy, maybe ten or eleven, wearing a taqiyya — a white cap as worn by Muslim men — staring at him.
“Hello,” said Sullivan.
“You look really angry.”
“I do?”
“Yes. Your face was twisting, like this.”
The boy’s face twisted, his lips pouting and his features squeezing, and Sullivan couldn’t help but laugh. Perhaps his thoughts were seeping through to his facial expression more than he was aware.
“Wow,” Sullivan said. “Is that really what I look like?”
“It was. You’re smiling now.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Do you want some lunch?”
“Excuse me?”
“My dad said not to do this, but he has a stall over there, and nobody’s buying anything. I just thought, maybe you’d like some lunch.”
“What’s he serving?”
“Curry. He’s got lots of kinds. It’s not expensive.”
Sullivan wanted to say, it is half eleven in the morning, I imagine not many people are wanting curry yet — but didn’t.
“I would love some curry,” he said, instead.
“Okay, it’s this way,” the boy said, rushing through the crowd, Sullivan trying to keep up. “I’m Sajid by the way.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Sajid.”
“What’s your name?”
Sullivan hesitated. It was best that Sajid didn’t know his name.
“Clint,” he said instead. He used to love Dirty Harry films as a kid, and it was the first thing that came to his mind.
“That’s a funny name.”
“I guess it is.”
He arrived at the stall where a fine assortment of curries were on display. Sullivan took a ten-pound note from his pocket and handed it over.
“I’ll have a Jalfrezi, please,” he said. The man served it up, and went to hand Sullivan five pounds in change, but Sullivan waved it away.
“Keep it,” he said. He had millions in a bank, and this looked like good curry.
Sajid watched intently as Sullivan had his first taste.
“Beautiful,” Sullivan declared. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Sajid’s face lit up. “I helped make that one!”
“You did a good job.”
“Thank you!”
“I’m going to have a walk. It was nice to meet you, Sajid.”
“You too, Clint.”
Sullivan smiled and walked away. He wasn’t lying, it was good curry. He didn’t feel particularly hungry, but he ate it, if only for the pleasure it gave Sajid. Once he’d finished, he searched for a bin. He walked a little bit out of the market to find one, and placed his finished container inside.
Someone barged into him as he did, and quickly apologised without breaking their stride.
This man drew Sullivan’s attention. Something wasn’t right about him. He looked anxious, yet determined. He was striding toward Market Hall, wiping sweat from his brow. His coat was bulging. His top half was a lot thicker than his bottom half. Either he’d missed a lot of leg days in the gym, or…
Then Sullivan wondered... why was he wearing a coat? It was hot, so much so that a lot of men were walking around with no t-shirt on at all. No one in their right mind would go out in a coat. So what was he trying to cover up?
“Shit!”
The man paused outside Market Hall, looked inside, took a detonator from his pocket, and ran into the building.
“Everyone get down!” Sullivan shouted, and every face turned to look at him. “Everyone get down, bomb!”
Initially, people looked at him like he was mad, but the word bomb made people listen. It still made little difference, as Market Hall was where the man had gone. How on earth was Sullivan meant to go in there and evacuate people without being caught in the blast himself?
He just had to save those he could.
“Everyone get away from the building!” he shouted.
He was about to retreat himself, until he saw Sajid. Just outside Market Hall. Wandering absentmindedly into the building.
“Sajid, no!” Sullivan screamed.
Without another thought, he sprinted toward the building.
Sajid paused, turned, and looked at Sullivan.
With an expression of confused playfulness, Sajid smiled and waved.
“Get back!” Sullivan shouted.
Sajid looked back, confused, cupping his ear as if to tell Sullivan to speak up.
“I said, get back! It’s about to—”
The explosion engulfed Market Hall in flames, and sent Sullivan flying into a nearby stall.
Chapter Five
Sullivan opened his eyes seconds later and tried to ignore the ringing in his ears.
He rolled over, struggled to his feet, and limped forward, coughing on the smoke; it was so thick he could barely see.
He lifted his t-shirt and covered his mouth, waving black clouds out of his eyes, hobbling forward. There was an ache in his leg, and a wheeze in his breath — but he had suffered such injuries before.
At first, there was a silence; sickening, unbearable silence. A rumble had preceded the deafening roar of the explosion, but for a moment after the impact, everything was numb.
Then the screaming began. Not from inside the building — all that came from Market Hall was smoke and fire; the screams came from the people outside it. People Sullivan couldn’t see through the clouds of grey and black.
He forced himself forward, not entirely sure what he was doing. Did he really think he could help these people? They were either dead, or dying. He was trained in killing, not bringing people back to life.
Nevertheless, he persevered. The ringing in his ears lessened, and the screaming grew louder.
The first body he came to was barely recognisable. Half of the face was intact, but the rest was covered in burns. A woman, in desperate denial, sat over the body, shaking it. Sullivan thought about helping, but the man was dead.
He struggled forward until he reached the doors to Market Hall, and shielded his face from the heat of the flames. A few burnt bodies had been thrown from the building and lay outside the entrance. He could do nothing but check to see if any of them were still alive.
He passed the first one, who was an old man, burns covering his empty face.
The next was a woman, possibly in her thirties. He put a hand on her throat. No pulse. She was holding a blanket, but the blanket was empty.
Across from her was a battered and broken pram, covered in ash.
Across from that was her baby.
He kept walking, stepping over bodies, glancing to see if there was anyone who he could help, but all he found was death.
Sirens rang out in the distance.
He crouched, keeping low, where the smoke was less thick, trying to see the bodies more clearly. With each dead face he saw, his mind plunged its fist into the depths of his memory and pulled out the face of a corpse he’d once created. Every child, every mother, and every father he came across conjured another piece of trauma he’d so poorly repressed.
He stumbled into the body of a boy and reluctantly looked upon the corpse’s face. It didn’t register at first, then in an abrupt hit of shock, he recognised the childish features that remained so still.
“Sajid…”
Sullivan knew he was dead, but it didn’t matter. He insisted to himself that there was still a chance, that Sajid could still be revived, and he placed his mouth over the boy’s, breathed out, not just once, but again, and again, and again.
He interlocked his fingers and pumped on Sajid’s heart.
He breathed into his mouth, then pumped the chest. Breathed out, then pumped.
Sajid wasn’t moving.
And, not so much in a decisive moment, but in a wave of overwhelming sadness, Sullivan understood that Sajid wasn’t going to move again.
The boy had probably died upon impact. If not, then the fall on his head could have
killed him, or the burns on his body.
Oh, God, Sullivan hadn’t even noticed the burns on his body. Sajid’s death would have been terrifying, and he would have suffered.
He saw his daughter in Sajid’s face. Despite many differences between them, he suddenly thought about what it would be like to hold Talia like this. What it would be like to see her die.
Sajid was someone’s child too.
Sullivan fell onto his back, and he didn’t move.
He laid beside Sajid, making sure the boy wasn’t alone, making sure that Sajid did not have to experience the kind of solitude he subjected himself to.
The sirens grew louder. There were lots of them now. People started running in.
One fireman tried to see if he was alive, and he batted their hands away, told them he was fine and to go check on others.
Sullivan tried not to care about the bodies that surrounded him. It was easier that way.
He remained still, lying on the blood-soaked street, feeling the heat of nearby fire, not moving.
He stayed with Sajid until his body was collected.
Chapter Six
Kelly stood with her colleague, Henry Jameson, watching the news, just as aghast as everyone else at MI5.
The room was in a commotion, people rushing from seats, bashing keys at their computer, shouting, demanding, asking — but Kelly and Jameson, the two people responsible for leading counterterrorism operations, could only stand still in disbelief that they had not caught this before it happened.
“We are hearing that the attack happened at Camden Market, about half an hour ago, believed to have been carried out by a suicide bomber. We aren’t sure of the number of casualties yet, but all we can see are the fire and police officers pulling out dead bodies.”
The news did not tell them anything they didn’t already know. Islamic extremist. Suicide bomber. Many dead.
“Has anyone claimed responsibility yet?” Jameson asked one of his subordinates.
“Not heard anything,” the man said, dashing past, adding, “sorry, I have to get this done for Maya.”
Everyone in their team was working as they should, and they did not need further instructions, so Kelly and Jameson retreated to their office at the back of the room.
They sat in silence, but neither sat still; shifting in their seat, fidgeting with their hands, glancing out of the window and at framed pictures of their family.
Kelly knew that they needed to start acting, that they had to lead, that they needed to get involved and find out what their team knew.
The shock was just taking a while to sink in.
“How the fuck—” Jameson went to say, then stopped.
“I—” Kelly went to respond, but found herself equally perplexed.
She stood, unable to sit still any longer.
“We need to do something,” she said. “We can’t sit in here any longer.”
“I know, I just — how did this get past us?”
“We won’t find that out sitting in here.”
“Everyone’s doing what they are supposed to do. We can’t instruct them until we have their intel. Just let them work for another ten minutes, then let’s see what they have.”
“You’re right, I just think we should show our faces. Hiding in our office doesn’t look good.”
“We are not hiding. Far as they are concerned, we are talking strategy.”
“And what is our strategy, Henry? How the hell did we not see this?”
“I don’t even—”
A knock on the office door silenced them.
“Come in,” Jameson said, and a man entered, a bit scruffy and dishevelled. He was one of the guys who worked on network monitoring. Toby, or something.
“What?” Jameson barked.
“You might want to see this.”
“What is it?” Kelly asked.
“A video claiming responsibility.”
“Is it credible?”
“Think so.”
Kelly and Henry rushed from the office, trailing Toby through to the next room, where a video was projected onto the screen.
A man, with his face disguised and wearing a thawb — an ankle-length, tunic-like garment — stood in the centre of what appeared to be a cave, though Kelly knew that didn’t mean much. The setting would be deliberate, probably to make them think they were hiding out somewhere. Chances are, this was done in their basement.
“Play it,” she instructed.
Toby hit the space bar and the video began.
“I am speaking on behalf of Alhami, in Allah’s name.”
Kelly bowed her head.
Alhami. Named as such because it means The Protector. They were a terrorist cell of Islamic extremists they had been tracking for a while, but hadn’t taken as seriously as other terrorists they’d chosen to prioritise — Alhami had never committed an attack, and didn’t appear to have the resources to do something on this scale. All they had ever done was rant about the West and how infidels should die.
“By now I hope you see that we are serious. By now, I hope you understand that we are prepared to commit unrelenting blows upon our enemies in the West. Because of the detainment of our Muslim brothers in the United Kingdom, we are focusing our demonstrations on you. And this is not the last.”
“Detainment of Muslim brothers?” Kelly said to Jameson. “Do you think he means Azeer Nadeem?”
“Definitely,” Jameson said.
If that was the case, then this was only going to get worse. They suspected Azeer Nadeem of being the leader of Alhami, but had felt safe in the knowledge that he was currently serving twelve years for attempted murder. Azeer had claimed he’d stabbed a man while defending himself during a racist attack, and the Muslim community was livid when he had been sentenced to prison. No wonder they were stepping up their aggression.
“You attack us, and you hold our brothers for defending our rights, then we will attack you for denying those rights. I hope, from today’s attack, that you understand how serious we are.”
“Could Azeer be running this from the inside?” Jameson quickly suggested.
“No idea.”
“Should we caution and interview him?”
“And give away that we know who he is?”
They turned their attention back to the screen.
“And so, to the people of the United Kingdom, we say this — you are not safe. This was only the beginning. You can expect two more attacks in the next thirty days. Each attack will be bigger than the last, and you can expect more of your people to die.”
Despite the man’s face being concealed, they could still see a grin widening. He added, “Allahu akbar,” then the video ended.
Everyone’s face turned to Kelly and Jameson, who stared at the video in disbelief.
More attacks? Bigger than the last?
“What do we do?” asked Toby.
Kelly felt her phone ringing. That’s when she remembered — Sullivan was going to Camden Market that morning.
Jameson immediately began issuing instructions as Kelly rushed into the office.
Chapter Seven
Sullivan trudged away from the smoke until he reached the police tape. Crowds were gathering, full of people standing in stunned silence. Some with their arms around each other. Others in isolation.
Fire officers ran in and out, some tackling the remaining flames, some helping to transport bodies.
Reporters were already here, standing in front of their cameras with the devastating scene behind them. It made Sullivan feel sick. To them, this was a good shot. To them, this was an opportunity to further their career. To them — this was something they were pleased they got to first, so they could get the scoop.
One reporter ran up to Sullivan as he emerged, grabbing his arm.
“Hello, are you okay?” she asked, the camera pointing at him.
“Get that damn camera out of my face.”
“Were you in the attack? Did you see what happened? Are
you—”
Sullivan grabbed the camera and threw it to the floor, smashing the lens.
“What the fuck?” the cameraman said.
Sullivan grabbed hold of the man’s collar and pulled his face within inches of his own.
Not only did he not want to be recognised, he also did not want some bastard shoving a camera in his face and asking questions.
The man quickly became apologetic, fearing an imminent beating.
Sullivan let him go and wandered onward. He passed weeping onlookers. People were showing up and demanding to know if their loved ones were found, and police officers could do nothing but tell them to keep back and let them work.
Many ambulances were parked on the road, and many doctors were rushing in. Any that came back out, came out alone.
Sullivan saw one doctor sitting on the edge of an ambulance, his head in his hands.
He considered stopping and making sure the man was okay, but he didn’t. He was too angry. This shouldn’t have happened. How had no one picked up on this?
Or had someone known, but been too stupid to stop it?
After walking for God-knows how long, he reached a payphone. He stopped, sifted through his pockets for change, and poked a few coins through the slot. It was at times like this a mobile phone would be useful — but he did not want to be tracked, and he despised technology.
He dialled Kelly’s number. It rang for a while, but eventually, she answered.
“Hello?”
Sullivan did not speak. He hadn’t thought about what he was going to say.
She worked for MI5. She should have stopped this.
“Jay, is that you?” she asked.
He stuttered.
“Jay, please, if that is you, please let me know you’re safe.”
“I — I’m fine.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Thank God?
God had fuck all to do with this.
“Did you know?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
He held a breath, his lip curling.
“Did you know?” he repeated.
“Excuse me? Did we know?”
“Yes. Did you know?”
“Are you being serious? Here I am, terrified you are hurt, and you ring me up to accuse me of—”
